


Galatea

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discussion of Character Background, F/M, Lovers' Conflict, Mob Turf Wars, Pygmalion & Galatea (Grecian Mythology reference), Reclaiming of Territory, Threats of Violence, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This city will fear her.  This city will respect her.  In time, they will bow before her.  Or they die.  The decision should be relatively simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galatea

**Author's Note:**

> I played with Victor's background again; it's rather fun to think of the sweet little boy that would late become one of the most psychotic Batman villains in existence. :)
> 
> The "Mature" rating is mostly for the violence in here; it shouldn't be anything too graphic, but I wanted to play it safe.

_“If the gods can give all things, may I have as my wife, I pray…one like the ivory maiden.”_

It’s not quite a story as old as time, but Pygmalion and Galatea have been known to him nearly as such. Grecian mythology came into his academic world at a young age, when a school trip to the library brought him wandering aimlessly through aisle after aisle after aisle, eyes hungrily devouring the titles etched in glossed letters, and then a new world opened to him: a world where the heavens were home to not one but many gods, where mortals were both favored and reviled, and the worlds of Heaven and Earth often met, sometimes in violent clashing blows and others in softer moments.

Book after book after book had been devoured, a young mind starved for details, for knowledge, for more. His mother would often smile, seeing her son beneath a tree on a warm spring day, the family dog curled at his bare feet and a book spread wide across his lap. His father delighted in it, always encouraging his son’s passion for learning, for a mind hungry for knowledge was a mind always thinking ahead, always prepared, always looking for something more. Nothing could have been truer, not for the boy always reading, always refining his vocabulary, always wanting _more_.

Victor wonders, sometimes, if this desire for _more_ is both blessing and curse.

When he does wonder, he thinks of Pygmalion, of the man who had so much and wanted for nothing, save perfection in his chosen bride. He sees this man, from time to time, across the lens of his inner eye, alone in a workshop, sculpting, drowning himself in the quiet life of an artist in search of something to fill a loveless life, and he sees himself: a boy becoming a man, throwing himself into books, into school, into the rigors of taking the mantle from his father at a young age and running a business with the same efficiency, leading a successful life but never knowing the bliss of a mate at his side. He imagines Pygmalion walking the streets, as he surely must have, watching couples walk by in great contentment, feeling the ache of his emptiness once more, and he remembers the moments of watching his parents, side by side, smiling and taking innocent delight in each other’s company, and he remembers the vow. The damning vow made impulsively, without thought attached or logic involved: that he too would one day find his perfect mate.

_Perfect_ , and that had been the damnation. His life had existed in such a realm, in the world of perfection, untouched by ugliness, untainted, pure and virgin in every way. _Perfect_ had been Galatea, the ivory maiden sculpted by Pygmalion’s own hands; _Perfect_ had been Victor’s world, white and pure and beautiful, a masterful inheritance brought to even greater fulfillment by his own hands. _Perfect_ …but Pygmalion had been a wiser man, to never ask for perfection from the gods. He’d sought Perfection’s likeness, but never Perfection itself.

But Victor is a man desiring more, _always **more**_ , and had not been the wiser. In return, his perfect world unraveled, crumbled to dust, but even so, the desire remained.

There had been moments when _more_ was his ally, when it set him apart and brought others to take notice. Carmine Falcone had not been the first to take note, but was the first to sweep Victor from the streets and return him to the world of wealth and glamor into which he was born. It had been an easy and swift return to his roots, but he looked upon it with opened eyes. Golden halls were filled with shadows, and those moving throughout were tainted and distorted by their weaknesses; the men once seen as worthy of respect were corrupted by greed, and the women once viewed as elegant beauties were hideous in their vanity. He mourned the loss of his youthful innocence for only a short time; it was far easier and brought far more delight to avenge the loss. More, more, always _more_ , always _one **more**_. 

Don Falcone had been openly appreciative, publicly praised him, but to have as much as Victor’s desire sought would have been to move about freely, and freedom had its limitations. Don Falcone had rules, and no one was exempt from following them, not even his favored son of the night.

But rules could be a friend, even if temporary, and breaking those rules was an opportunity waiting for fulfillment. Especially when someone else broke the rules. Marcus DeLaine had been such an individual, breaking rules left and right, perhaps ignorant of it or perhaps aware and dismissive, and Don Falcone had limits.

Victor knew the DeLaines, knew of them, before the matter had even been set before him. Their reputation preceded them, for many years, and often he heard Father speaking quietly with Mother about a proposed business venture from the, at the time, young and overly-ambitious heir to the company.

“ _He is plagued by arrogance._ ” Father once said of Marcus DeLaine. “ _One day, it will be his doom._ ”

Foreboding words, and Victor took great delight that night, while venturing up the darkened path to his destination, thinking of his father’s wisdom, and carrying confidence that he would bring such prophetic words to life, in service to his Don, but also in his father’s memory.

But it was not meant to be, for he learned, beneath a cold winter’s night with a full moon interrupting dark skies, of the wonder Pygmalion must have felt, when he first took white clay and began crafting perfection. It was only the first press of fingers into clay, into something shapeless and devoid of character or personality or life, but there is something addictive in crafting perfection. The first press seeps deep into the skin, burrows deep and buries within the cells, and once it has begun it cannot end, not until the masterpiece is complete.

He wonders if Pygmalion ever meant to fall in love with his creation. Surely not. Surely it had only begun as a work of art, a great achievement for a master of his craft; Pygmalion could scarcely be blamed for the betrayal of his heart, to pine and desire something as strongly as it did the unattainable. And what, of all things on the earth, is more unattainable than beauty frozen and immortalized within ivory?

Nothing. But Iris comes close. Very, very, _very_ close.

He watches her, in this place, in this new season of life. He watches her more than he watches Gotham’s unsuspecting citizens, more than he stalks prey and satisfies his hunger. He watches her in the house, moving throughout her rightful inheritance with gracefully-guised trepidation, as though a guest and not an owner. He watches her linger instead of thrive. He watches her, suspended, nearly frozen in a single moment; a moment in which fear is all she knows, when a place is not home but it is safe, when venturing out into the world is too dangerous and she returns stained red when she left pristine and flawless. She is afraid. Not of the city, not of the people, but of living. She is content to linger, drift ghost-like from one day to the next, but never live.

He’d hoped for more, that night when she commanded him to strike back against the self-declared King of Gotham, to deliver a message and warning. There had been fire in her eyes, prowess and grace in her stance, and such venom in her voice; a queen commanding her tiger to bloody his teeth and claws in her name. He saw her that night: _She-Wolf_. He has seen her before, but it is only a glimpse, always in fleeting moments, stolen breaths of Time, and then nothing. It aggravates him, because he knows who and what Iris is. She is not this timid child. To see her cling to this battered and pitiful image is painful; on the worst days, it is both painful and infuriating.

Still, he watches her. He watches her in the kitchen, in the library, in her uncle’s study, outside in the garden; sometimes she is alone, but most times, these days, she has company. The little alley cat with unruly golden locks and bottle-green eyes follows, with the idle indifference of a teenager and the adoring silent gaze of a child following in her mother’s wake. She is Iris’ shadow, perching on the kitchen counter while dinner is prepared, venturing to the garden for fresh air, spending hours in the library with books and art. There are days when she slips away, leaves before dawn and stays away for a day or two, and Iris simply lights a candle in the window and waits. Her patience and good faith has yet to be betrayed, for the little kitten always comes back. Sometimes he finds them, after another return home, with the girl regaling a tale of great adventure and mishap, all of which accounts for the scrapes and bruises damaging an otherwise flawless canvas of feminine youth, while Iris listens and cleans each wound with care and precision.

He watches her with Shakta, their precious little one, and he delights in the way something once so small has grown, become taller, stronger, faster; the shyness of her younger days have transformed into eager curiosity, and patience. Patience, as she crouches deep within untamed blades of grass and untrimmed bushes, waiting, waiting, waiting…and then the burst of white firing like a bullet, striking the unwary bird perching above with a single paw, and then silence. Silence, until the bushes rustle, and then Shakta emerges with jaws clamped tight around her prey. He watches as she trots forward, unhurried, and presents her offering to Iris, with the eagerness to please of a young child showing off a new trick, or their next great academic accomplishment, or their newest dedication to the world of art. He watches Iris crouch down, collect Shakta in both arms, and bestow kisses with sweet murmurings of praise.

Sometimes he watches, and his inner eye crafts a new picture, of not a young tiger but a human child wrapped in Iris’ arms, giggling with each kiss, then looping arms tight around its mother’s neck, _I love you, Mommy_ falling with ease from its lips. He imagines Iris’ smile, her adoring gaze, her expressed delight and untainted devotion for such a child. _Their_ child. He wonders if the child would have its mother’s hair, or the blonde locks from his parents, and what shade of blue its eyes would be. Most assuredly, it would have blue eyes, and he thinks he might like it to have Iris’ piercing gaze. He wonders if they would sire a boy, or a girl. He wonders if they would have more than one. The latter thought makes him squirm, just a little.

And then he blinks and the images dissolve, fantasy melting back to reality. There is nothing wrong with the picture before him, with the love Iris shows a tiger cub. _Nothing at all._

***

He leans against the cold concrete, exhaling and watching his breath mist on the half-frozen air. It is always cold in Gotham; summer abandoned this city long ago, though the sun visits from time to time. The days are tolerable, the nights occasionally unpleasant, and they have a few months left before winter returns and the city becomes nearly inhabitable. Tonight, it is colder than most, in springtime, but there is a certain delight he takes in the cold. It makes the blood run hot, churning fast within the veins, and the biting sting of chill across exposed skin is rather invigorating. He takes another breath, feeling the pressure of lungs filling with cold air, and exhales again. And he smiles quietly to himself.

The _click, click, click_ of approaching heels draws his eyes from the empty skies to the two women now a short distance away. The cold is not something they expressly dislike, but there is an element of self-preservation to be considered, and the usual attire is occasionally exchanged for something more suitable. For Tanesha, it means a complete change, to include pants instead of a skirt and a jacket to cover what is often exposed. For Yin, it simply means the inclusion of a fur-trimmed coat that stylishly clashes with the fullness of her Lolita-inspired skirts. He can only smirk to consider the dry cleaning bill.

They quietly stand close and wait for further instruction; it’s a pleasant change from those infrequent, but unfortunately memorable, times when Don Falcone ordered the company of other hired guns to accompany Victor on errands, rather than his girls. Those men talked, asked questions, pinched a nerve once or twice, and sometimes he would leave with three men and return with two. On nights when he was in rare form, he’d return alone.

His body language speaks without words, as it often does: they follow the direction of his gaze, to the gathering of six men outside the club door, where a neon blue umbrella hovers protectively in the window, declaring the owner of this establishment by reputation alone, and his girls understand. Tanesha’s dark lips quirk into an eager smile, and she quietly steps forward, drawing close to his side.

“Two each?”

“Three.” He answers, with lips thinned into a cool smile. His eyes see beyond the door, beyond tinted windows, beyond the exterior to what lies inside. His prey— _his_ , not the girls’—is there, unsuspecting, unaware, and that is precisely how he likes it. His claws are ready to strike, his teeth and tongue prepared for death, blood warm in his veins, tongue flicking in place, nearly counting the seconds.

He glides inside the door with ease, as though another customer passing by for the evening in search of shelter from the cold, or perhaps a stiff drink to ebb away the day’s terrible trials, eyes straightforward and calmly dismissive of the girls prowling forward, guns gleaming at each side, with prey never noticing their approach. He counts five seconds, silently, and then _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ The mufflers are an unfortunate necessity tonight, to avoid immediate alarm. It will not delay the inevitable, not for long, not in this place where ears are fine-tuned to recognize a gunshot from miles away, but he only needs a little time.

The large man quietly nursing his drink at the bar is first to take note of the sound, and instinct brings him to rise, half a turn away from facing the door, and Victor’s hand is ready. Once, it would have been a gun, but tonight it is a knife, blade sharp and ready and eager, pressed firm to the lower left side. Clothing is a slight barrier, but the press sends a message and it is received accordingly.

“We’re going to take a walk, Butch.” Victor murmurs, curling his free hand around a broad shoulder, as though greeting an old friend. The man doesn’t move, but the tremor vibrates his form and the knife communicates it with a low thrum in Victor’s hand.

“He’s right upstairs.” Butch says, rather stupidly.

Victor hums agreement and nods understanding, then gently nudges Butch closer, thumb stroking idly through his jacket, until his lips are at the larger man’s ear, voice soft, the kind of tone in which great secrets are exchanged and something of great import is shared with a worthy party. “Butch,” he breathes, soothing the knife with a quiet touch, when the blade quivers impatiently, “are you arguing with me?”

Another tremor follows his question, and he watches large hands flex, to hide their shaking. “No, Mr. Zsasz.”

“Are you going to make me ask again?”

“No, Mr. Zsasz.” Butch answers, and dutifully turns in place. The knife thrums its displeasure, when pocketed without blood on its blade; Victor understands its frustration, the hunger pangs of being denied one’s desire, but the time will come. Next time, his blade will have its fill.

Butch keeps eyes ahead, staring straight into the night; anxiety ripples quietly across his jaw when his right foot nudges a limb lying sprawled across the pavement, but he says nothing. The girls approach in similar silence, both satisfied with purr-worthy smiles. Yin daintily steps over one body, quietly adjusting her collar and fluffing the fur trim with gloved hands. Tanesha rolls her eyes and calls her a diva. Yin replies it’s better than being a “fashion-don’t”.

“Play nice, girls.” Victor croons. The night has been quietly enjoyable, lacking the usual excitement to raise adrenaline levels and make it euphoric, but there is something to be said for less mess. He’ll have plenty of time to make a mess later. The fun has only just begun.

***

Fingernails _tap, tap, click, click, tap, tap_ on the polished wood desk, fingers rising, falling, rising, falling, one after the other in steady repetition; their owner has eyes of ice and lips thinned colorless as she considers the man standing in front of her. The silence is uncomfortable, to say the least, and his muscles are starting to cramp from fifteen minutes without movement. In the corner, at her bed by the window, Shakta watches, blue eyes moving left to right, right to left, waiting, watching.

“I promised you free reign over the city and her people, barring only one.” Iris finally says, very quietly and very slowly; he recognizes this tone only too well, from previous occasions when he has used it, either in speaking with her or someone else. He dislikes being the recipient instead of the provider. “I have said nothing as you come and go, often returning at the most unholy hours. I have been nothing but accommodating to your impulsivity and noteworthy lack of tact.”

Listening to her is the verbal equivalent to waiting for a time bomb to reach its limit and shatter foundations: slow, tedious, and constantly keeping the observing party on edge. “Is it, then, so much to ask,” she reaches to the left, collecting the thick mass of black-stamped paper delivered earlier today on the drive, “that you give me the _briefest_ warning,” she hurls the paper across her desk with a violent flourish; the stack spirals five times before coming to a tremulous resting place, halfway over the edge, “before you decide to _declare **war**_ in this city?”

He has no need to actually look down and read the papers, but he does just for amusement’s sake. The front page is covered in large greyscale photos of Oswald Cobblepot’s downtown club, depicting police working the crime scene with sheets draped over the two bodies not yet collected from their final resting place. He doesn’t take time to read the story; he already knows what it will say: Murder victims, messy scene, infamous individual involved, police have no leads. End of story.

“It was necessary.” He answers, calm, collected. Her eyes glitter dangerously.

“Necessary.” She repeats; from the corner, he can hear Shakta rustling around on her bed, likely agitated by her mother’s subarctic tone. “You felt it _necessary_ to execute _six_ individuals currently in Mr. Cobblepot’s employ, in front of the establishment from which he presently conducts his business, and take yet _another_ employee as a consolation prize. You felt these things _necessary_.”

“Yes.” _As should have you_ , he doesn’t add, yet.

_Irritated_ would be a generous way to describe her current mood; if looks alone could kill, he would be lying at her feet, dead twice over. “Victor,” she finally says, resting elbows atop the desk and steepling fingers, “I confess I am having a little trouble understanding your mindset at the moment. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to just why it is necessary to go make a mess of someone else’s castle just because you can. In a way,” she adds, with biting emphasis, “that manages to make you sound something _other than_ childish.”

“Perhaps if you’d stop thinking like a child, this wouldn’t require explanation.”

The silence falls with the weight of lead, of molten tar, and his words permeate with a bullet’s subtlety. Shakta growls, not with agitation, but with distress; she reads the body language, she feels the weight pressing down mercilessly in this room, between them, and she dislikes it, greatly. He thinks to comfort her, but he doesn’t. He’s not moving or redirecting attention until this conversation is had and resolved.

Iris’ complexion is officially drained of all lingering color—and considering how pale she is on a regular basis, this is quite an impressive feat—and each breath is barely a hiss, chilled and furious yet composed. It’s irritating, aggravating. _Get angry_ , he says without a word. _Yell. Lash out. Do something. **Feel** something._

She does do something, eventually, but not as he wishes. “Is there anything else you would like to say, Victor?” she slowly asks, fingers tight, tips white with the pressure placed on them. “If so, please, speak. Do not let me stop you from expressing yourself as desired.”

Victor is a man of exemplary patience; as rare a specimen as can exist, in that regard. His patience, in fact, should go down in history as unmatched, unrivaled, worthy of great admiration, and many who follow after should attempt to mirror his wondrous example. This world, he’s sure would be better with two things: the banishment of humanity and the adoption of saint-like patience. One might have to come before the other, but he won’t be technical about it.

However, he also has his limits. If his pride-worthy trait is patience, then Iris’ is burrowing deep under his skin and shattering composure, with nothing but a word. She’s done it before, she’ll do it many times again, and she’s doing it now.

“You have no idea, do you?” he finally says, willing his voice to remain level. He doesn’t need to shout and wave and yell to get the point across; making a scene will traumatize little Shakta, and he’d never live with himself.

“…About what?” she asks; her confusion is genuine, albeit carefully masked behind icy fury and, no doubt, several thoughts about striking out at him and giving a few new scars with her fingernails to make her point.

What is about to follow will be, in no uncertain terms, remarkably unpleasant. When this is over, he shall count himself fortunate to be unscathed and still upright without any permanent damage to his physical person. But let it be known, for whatever physical blows she may deal him, he will be returning each and every one in kind with only the most crippling of psychological blows. It’s crude, it’s barbaric, it’s nothing he ever wanted, but she’s left him no choice.

“About how utterly pathetic you can be.” He replies; her eyes widen, then flash, but he doesn’t stop. With a deliberate forward step, he loosens the tongue he’s been keeping contained for too long, never once blinking, never once looking away. “This is your home, Iris. This city, this house, all of it is _yours_. You have a home to maintain, you have a company to run, you have a city to rebuild, you have a life to live, and yet you sit here, day after day, night after night, and you do nothing. You drift along with the same enthusiasm as a homeless man on the street while the man who ran your uncle into early retirement is perched on the throne. _Your_ throne.”

Three more steps bring him barely a foot from where she sits, seemingly frozen in place, eyes staring at him in silence. “You are the last wolf.” He whispers, holding her gaze with burning intensity. “Rightful heir to this manor, to this property, and to this city. Penguin took that from you. He sits there on the throne and acts as though he can run this city. The same man who couldn’t run a nightclub without help, your help, I might add, thinks _he_ can run _your_ city. And you sit here, silent as the grave, and let him continue believing it. If this is how you are going to live, then perhaps you shouldn’t have come back.”

There is a faint shimmer pooling in blue eyes, highlighting their radiant color with a lovely sheen, but she refuses to blink, and so they simply remain in place, lingering in glistening formations. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Is there anything else you would like to add, Victor?”

He’s pleased. Not in the fact she was brought to tears, but the fact that she is not hiding them, that she is not pretending to be calm, to be unaffected. Finally, emotion, once more, and it’s pure, real, honest. She’s upset. She’s hurting. But she can be healed. It’s simply a matter of time.

“I love you.” He answers, with slow forward steps, ever attentive to her face as she blinks, and the tears make an abrupt descent, glistening tracks visible in the pale daylight. “You are my wolf. You are my lady. You are my queen.” He reaches out, finding her hands with his and entwining fingers; the grip is his anchoring point, drawing her slowly upright, to her feet, and close to him. He kisses a path along her cheeks, tasting the salt of tears, “This city will fear you,” he kisses the left cheek, “and they will respect you.” 

He kisses the right cheek, then he hovers above her lips, “Those who don’t, who try to hurt you, or threaten you, or cause you any harm,” one hand catches her chin in two fingers, gently tipping her head back, closer, for better access to the mouth ghosting against his own, soft and warm and perfectly formed, “will die screaming.”

A quiet exhale brushes his skin, and then she turns from what would have been a kiss to nestle her cheek to his shoulder. “What would you have me do, Victor?” she sounds tired, but not defeated, and he takes that as encouragement.

“Take back what is yours.” He answers; it should go without saying, yes, but if she needs an extra bit of reassurance and a touch of guidance, and it will bring her one step closer to where she belongs, where she _deserves to be_ , he’s all for offering what is needed.

“I…I do not know if I can.”

“You can.” He kisses her temple, several times, with a hand running warmly across her back. “And you must.”


End file.
